


Generally Wingless

by furius



Series: God Echoes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Blasphemy, Episode Tag, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Religious Conflict, love in desperate times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/furius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel doesn't think the world needs another human, Dean does. (A story of the future near its beginning).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Generally Wingless

-=-=

And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? - Through the Looking-Glass, VI

-=-=

There was a girl approaching from a distance, a small figure in a red skirt and red blazer, her brown legs dappled with bruises and scratches, her light hair wild in the wind.

"Cas, you're staring."

"She is beautiful."

Dean chuckled, a sound as if it had been strangled out of him. "God, Cas. Inappropriate timing. And that's a school uniform. Take it from someone who knows, the chances of her being eighteen are slim."

"She is beautiful," he said again, truthful, "like a young palm." She was almost in front of them, oblivious. Dean's hand brushed across Castiel's shoulder as he brought his hand to conceal a cough, but it might've been laughter.

-=-=

When the sun still rose at dawn, light seeping through the thin curtains and spilling gold across the floor, dyeing the carpet the color of rich earth, Castiel would open his eyes and wait, settling awareness into the limits of his body. The sensation of his skin on cotton always surprised him as much as the warmth and sway of the mattress as the body beside him stirred. Dean slept beside him because space was scarce in the house and time ran amok when no one was keeping track, and Castiel was more reliable than a sundial. Bobby had scarcely raised an eyebrow at the arrangement, few others knew and fewer cared.

Being a living alarm clock did not bother him, "Dean Winchester," He would say every morning, "It is dawn," but sometimes he said the words quietly so that Dean would not wake immediately. Then, Castiel could look at him sleeping in the light of a new day at this end of days. The desire was selfish. When the eyes open, Dean only saw the world and the work to be done. So in those small moments before the household grew noisy, before Dean's own internal alarm clamored, Castiel could study the even breathing, the easy lines on his face, and the loose sprawl of his limbs, memorizing every detail to carry with him as his own until the next moment in the unconscious knowledge that there would be no infinity to them. Castiel's angelic grace was newly confused with mortality. Time still existed all at once. The light sliding across soft cotton, smooth skin, and delicate lashes moved too slowly and too fast.

Still, Dean was never late.

Under the gaze and glare of the dirt-streaked survivors, Dean Winchester was a general waging war against what had always been humanity's lot: hunger, disease, and death. Instead of blare and roar of trumpets and cannons, there was a breathless hush in these battles -- Chuck's meticulous inventory of toilet paper, hygiene items, food and water, batteries and oil, Risa's careful distribution of guns and ammo, knives and iron, Bobby's lessons of protection and wards -- as if they feared that at any moment the earth beneath of them would collapse and they would fall into madness and fire. It was true, Castiel supposed, having never been subjected to these fears. At first. he felt all of this as a sort of spell, a trance that seemed to increase from day to day like his need for sleep. When he realised he could no longer fly because he did not wish to abandon Dean to this war, he did not think it was because he was becoming human. He was an angel at peace with God's plans, no matter what they might be. Once upon a time, he had sat in a ruined house, content to wait; so he would wait now, in this ruined world.

Nevertheless, the righteous man Castiel once saw, in a vision that seemed from long ago, resting in paradise after victory, faded with each passing day. Instead, Dean's presence seemed to grow more vivid and irrevocable, an anchor clothed in breakable flesh while the world grayed and drained slowly of life.

-=-=

The girl in red was fifteen, nearly sixteen, she said, eying Dean warily. Her dress was salvage, the gun and the backpack of salt rounds were not. Her parents were hunters. She came searching for Bobby's house, the sixth in a list of a dozen found in an old journal.

"This is Cas," Dean said, "Good job back there. He was impressed. I'm impressed. Welcome. Let's get you settled in."

She looked at Castiel, eyes wide and suddenly childish, "They say you're an angel of the lord."

Her hand was hard with gun-calluses, but her smile was soft and full with hope. Castiel felt his face grew warm. He didn't reply until Dean poked him in the ribs, "I am," He answered and saw she was pleased, as if he had given her a reason for joy. It was discomforting.

-=-=

"Overtaxed yourself?" said Dean. He woke up when the sun was high, then shook Castiel awake, "We promised Chuck to look over his inventory before we head out." He seemed amused, there was a rare curl at the corner of his mouth that calmed Castiel. He filed away the sight in place of the moment he had missed.

Forty-nine demons exorcised over the last week, Castiel did feel tired. There was a strange heaviness to his limbs, as if the very air was compressing the skin against flesh, bone and sinew, tightening invisible screws and shutting him within. Walking around the perimeter of the camp, he couldn't shake the sensation of something awful and wet and constant against his flesh. Reflexively, he kept trying to move away.

"Cas, are you shivering?" Dean asked.

"Am I?" He looked down at himself and saw the ground swimming in and out of his vision. He concentrated on a pebble by his feet until everything steadied. "I'm fine. Let's finish patrol."

"You better get back."

"I will stay by your side." Cell-phones no longer worked; there were Enochian sigils carved into his bones; Castiel could not leave Dean alone, fearing he would disappear once out of sight. By the minute, the heaviness of his body was dissipating; he was insubstantial as thought, his bones transmuting to light. His brothers were calling him, their voices urgent and forgiving, but the invisible wound on his side and the jagged seams of his reconstructed form reminded him that they could be faithless. The hand on his shoulder steadied him. He turned his head towards it, his face barely grazing the warm skin.

"If you are sure," Dean said, looking dubious, "You're looking flushed."

Half-way across the country, Sam was dying. In the regions where angels dwell, all the seraphim and cherubim had gathered in front of a window through which lies another world and another war with an unknown outcome. They would take all the celestial powers their Father had ordained for the peace of this world for another. They were the cowards and the traitors. A frisson of heat passed through Castiel's body, he stopped shivering. The vast sacred space of his home shrank to the size of the small hollow beneath his mortal chest, growing smaller with every moment Dean's touch lingered.

"I am sure I will stay," he affirmed, looking intently at Dean, "with you." Perhaps he had always assumed Castiel would stay, perhaps he had assumed Castiel would leave, but in returning the stare, Dean's eyes were oddly bright.

The sudden and deafening silence of Castiel's kin were subsumed under the engines of the Impala and the hypnotic rise and fall of Dean's voice as he made plans to kill the Devil.

-=-=

"Can I sleep with you?"

At first, Castiel was startled by the question then he saw the expression on her face. She was not wearing red, encased in jeans and boots and an over-sized jacket, this orphaned daughter of hunters had cornered him with some considerable effort considering the number of people in the house. As Dean explained, she was very young in human years; as such, her behavior were not always very reasonable. Castiel had refrained from answering that not only the young were unreasonable; Dean was still looking for the Colt.

"I sleep with Dean," he answered.

"Oh." She looked down at her bowl of porridge, apparently at a loss for words before looking up again, her face serious. "Do you think I can, anyways?" She seemed insistent, though he could not discern why.

"I don't think there is room," Castiel said truthfully. "But I could ask."

"What? No! I just thought, since everywhere else is full and you are an angel and all and he's..well- Does he really stay the whole night with you?"

No one had asked it before, but it didn't seem appropriate to answer, so Castiel didn't. Dean still slept on the bed beside him, though knocks on the door at night became more frequent and the invitations more brazen.

"You can go, if you like," Castiel told him one night.

"Who'll make sure you look presentable in the mornings then?" Dean had answered, looking away, "Anyways, I'm not sure if any one of them might not kill me in my sleep." He was not celibate, but he still spent the nights in this room. Castiel suspected that it was because Dean never slept out of reach of someone who would kill for him.

"It's not an unreasonable fear," Castiel conceded, reassured. He would keep watch.

-=-=

In the beginning, he could not remember his dreams. He slept at night but in the mornings he examined his wounds and saw without astonishment that they were healed and the sheets needed washing.

"Never thought I'd say this, but I miss motels. At least the sheets aren't pink. Not often, anyways. Why are you looking at me like that? "

Castiel laid his hand on Dean's abdomen, sliding up towards his chest. The shirt was dry, so he moved his hand beneath. The skin there was warm and if not as smooth as if he remembered but still whole. There was an outcry of indignation, but not of pain. "Weren't you injured?" Confused, he looked up from where Dean's hands had locked around his wrists, "A demon got you with a knife, here. "Because his hands couldn't move, he pointed with his fingers, the thin cotton giving in to firm flesh, "And here. There was a lot of blood."

Dean peered at him, "Were you dreaming?" But his hands were gentler when they removed them from his person. He didn't let them go, though the circle of his fingers had relaxed.

Sliding his eyes away from the gaze, secretly ashamed at the relief and unexpected joy, "Angels don't dream. We can't." Want. Not Know. Be Unconscious. Be confused. Angels, too, had catechisms, etched into their beings until Castiel realised they were merely words. And he would never wish Dean to be injured or hurt, surely.

"Humans do and you sleep now," Dean pointed out, seemingly remarkably at peace with the development. Castiel nodded, agreeing, but there was a wistfulness on Dean's face. He still hadn't let go. Instead, he leaned forward until Castiel could feel the heat of their breaths mingling. His lips parted. Remembering, vaguely, this had happened before or was about to happen, he was still unprepared for the agony of anticipation-

Then the sound of a shot screamed across the air. By the time Dean was downstairs, Bobby was dead and the murderer had ran off. Chuck told the story, half-hysterical, while a dozen women looked on, their tired faces harsh in the dim light. The wards had only kept out supernatural demons.

Castiel took off his coat and covered the corpse of Bobby Singer. They burned and salted the body, Jimmy Novak's long-lived trenchcoat with it. The smoke signified an end. Dean didn't speak, but the line of his mouth firmed and he wiped at his eyes so no tears fell. Castiel watched him and felt as if he had been the one being buried. Time was becoming linear. He would not be able to leave this man and return to find him the same.

"I think there are too many people for one house," Dean said afterwards. "We need to establish some sort of order."

Castiel remained silent. He had made his choice.

-=-=

"Normals," he had called them, except hardly anything was normal. Children ran away and never returned. The elderly roamed and never returned while those younger and stronger, weary of small hopes, fought to stay alive, bartering everything. Dean was suddenly confronted with the cracked mirror reflection a society he had never embraced and expected to mend it as if he knew what it should be.

"Here is your den of iniquity, Cas, the world as the angels wanted it," He kicked aside door then the broken bottle as Castiel followed him into the distillate, the bead curtain clattering behind him.

"The place stinks." A single candle stood on a table in a room that smelled of burnt sugar and incense. The wick was twisted, the wax had dried around a blackened spoon.

"We're just enjoying life," Argued the man from his position on a broken chair. He was alone, half-naked, and bleeding from cuts on his arms. There was a girl and a boy, teenagers, curled up against the wall in a sleeping bag, hair and limbs poking out the layers. Castiel recognized her. "They had nowhere else to go; no birthday, prom, SATs, college, grow-up," The man mumbled, then gestured at the rough-shod distillery, then at the candle, "I'm offering escape with a fairy-"

"Enjoy it when it doesn't hurt someone else." Dean Winchester brandished his knife, "Your wife and kid are looking for you. Man-up and do some supply runs. There's one leaving in an hour. Some explosives would be helpful, doc. I'm taking over this place. Cas, wake the kids and get them checked into med. The nurse would do, we don't need to bother the doctor."

Then, in the middle of no man's land between the sexes, Dean ordered Castiel to sit watch over the alcohol, ostensibly putting the fear of God into everyone. In reality, Castiel knew it was for fear of Dean Winchester who kept the company of an angel, even though it would not be for long. This remnant of humanity needed both the threat and reassurance of the tangible and the intangible. God may be lost and angels may be gone, but Castiel would solve the problem of his own humanity, in time, for Dean's sake. He was the reason, after all, why he was falling.

-=-=

Angels did not read theology. In all their long lives, they did not debate the righteousness of the sufferings of Job or the sacrifice demanded of Abraham, or whether children died in Sodom and Gomorrah. It was. They did. Angels did not question.

But pain disagreed with Castiel. The futility of it angered him. His leg in a cast, he felt useless, trapped working with a broken tool he could not discard.

"It's a not bad break, but it's going to take a while," said Dean. His acceptance of Castiel's increasingly obvious humanity was almost disquieting.

When Castiel was an angel in Heaven, the law was God and God was the law. When Castiel was an angel who rebelled against the law, he sought God elsewhere with the amulet. There was no doubt that God had existed. After all, angels existed even thought men doubted. But passing days in a chair, aware of the minute decay of his body even as his leg mended, Castiel was realizing that he was doubting whether God still existed where they were. Perhaps, like the heavens Castiel could no longer reach, God had shrank until that He existed nowhere at all except in the small kernel of uncertainty that Castiel found himself reaching fruitlessly for comfort.

"Welcome to humanity," said Dean Winchester when Castiel remarked that he had worn thin his faith and still he could discern no divine plan, "Embrace it. I'm going to teach you how to use a gun, get your frustrations out." It was an old joke. Castiel already knew how to use a gun. He lived with Dean, who now lived with a traveling armory strapped on his person for all to see, a weapon for God. He was a constant, a continuum when Castiel felt himself isolated in this world. The thought that he had no destiny troubled him until he remembered that Dean was remaking theirs.

In the dark, Castiel turned toward Dean, his face already shadowed with sleep. "You are fearless," Castiel told him, a half-murmur, unsure whether he wished to be heard. "Our fearless leader."

"I'm used to it," Dean said, opening his eyes. There was a twist to his words that Castiel found horrifying and comforting all at once: "I've never had much faith."

Moonlight fell through the window onto his face. Winter had darkened his hair, there were scars and wrinkles carved into his skin, but the surge of affection for this man was so suddenly overwhelming in its violence that Castiel -- mortal and afraid of the dark -- drowned himself beneath and consider himself saved.

He leaned forward and kissed Dean, a devout press of dry lips.

"Cas-" He kissed him again, harder. Dean's mouth opened easily beneath his, soft and warm and wet. He tasted of beer and toothpaste and smelled like gunpowder and rain. He was everything lovely. Castiel was suddenly certain of a joy so painful that he gasped.

Dean's movement grew frantic at the sound. "Do you remember...do you remember..." He was murmuring, almost desperately, sliding their shirts off, "You were an angel." Castiel's hand joined to untangle the thigh-holster, brushing against him, "You said it was fine to sit there and wait and die and I-" His lost his words. Clothes gone, Castiel stretched himself atop of Dean, every part of him relishing the feel of bare skin against his. Wonder suffused his being and the world was falling away.

"I do not forget, Dean," Castiel's breathing uneven with sheer want and consummate, aching pleasure, "I had enjoyed it." He knew then, that this time would be different. He laid a hand against the paint on Dean's skin, the tattoo of rapid heartbeats making him tremble for being the cause. His muscles were unsteady but he felt as if he contained the universe. Weak, strong, abashed, and excited all at once, being completely human was glorious. He stroked his hands up and down Dean's side, tracing the ragged edges of the scars gained in this life, the subtle swells of muscle atop of bones he had carved. Tangling their fingers together, thrusting downwards, his leg sliding between Dean's thighs, they were moving restlessly against each other, the calluses of Dean's fingertips pressing rough kisses against the smooth skin between Castiel's shoulder-blades while his mouth did the same.

"Don't hold me down," Dean reminded him in between the hard arch of a kiss, so quietly that Castiel might not have heard him if all his senses had not felt strangely magnified. Wordlessly, he twisted their bodies until he was pressed beneath, surrounded and embraced in an awful sort of thoughtless comfort he did not expect from his flesh. Lightening flashed across his mind; centuries passed; empires rose and fell as the spaces between their bodies disappeared; but no God entered his thoughts and the name on his tongue did not belong to God.

-=-=

Everywhere, the demons spoke as one: "Lucifer wears his true vessel, dear brother Dean."

"The devil is the Prince of Lies," said Risa loudly, echoed by everyone under Dean's care.

When the first photographic and video evidence drifted into the camp, it was just as well Sam Winchester did not resemble Dean Winchester in looks and everyone who knew them was dead. The hunters had been the ones hunted down first. In the middle of the night, Dean drove with Castiel to where a demon hung on a rack, pinned by devil's traps and angelic signs.

"I have to know," said Dean when he saw Castiel regarding the bench neatly lined with the torture implements, "You might want to sit this one out."

But Castiel said nothing. He would remain by Dean's side this time. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the demon they trapped talked readily, almost giddily, so did the next..and the next...and the next.

Dean's voice became quieter when he asked the questions. The subtle trembling in his fingers lessened until he moved smoothly, betraying forty years of skill honed in Hell. Yet while his motions became mechanical, his words grew wild until one day, he started when the demon began to speak and did not ask any question at all.

Afterwards, Castiel drove them back. He parked the Impala badly, but Dean had merely lurched forward, bracing himself against the dashboard. Castiel ushered him into the bathroom before anyone noticed that the black on their clothes was not mud and sound a warning for quarantine.

"You can still end this," Castiel said, soaking a towel in cold water. He washed the hands first, scrubbing the back and the palms, the creases of each knuckle, and under the nails, then moved his hand to dab at Dean's cheek.

"End what?" Dean asked, as if startled, grabbing the cloth out of his hand, "We are already at the end. Is there a restart? So, I kill the Devil and everything starts again? Starts where? Will Sam still be alive, will I- " He looked down at his hands then looked up again. There was a single light-bulb in the room, fluorescent and over-bright. Dean's pupils were pinpoints of black, the green of his eyes monstrously beautiful. Castiel almost leaned forward; perhaps, some part of him already knew the questions and wished to stop the inevitable sequence, "Do you know, Cas? What does God say? Why don't you go seek revelation? Who am I?"

You are chosen and wounded by God's love, Castiel almost replied, who makes and remakes you. It was the answer Zachariah had given to Castiel, but Castiel had never seen God though he had searched for Him. He placed his hand on Dean's arm. It was still the shape of his human hand that fit the scar. Dean almost moved away, but Castiel held on.

"The apocalypse is the revelation, not the end. You are Dean Winchester. You survived the beginning and will lead us through the ending," Castiel answered. He was certain of that, at least. He lifted Dean's hand, the one that had held the needle filled with Holy Water and kissed the clean skin, reverent.

He never saw Dean's expression. The light-bulb chose at that moment to die. Dean cursed, but did not push Castiel away when he pressed close to him and kicked close the door. They were for the dark.

-=-=

Perhaps, somehow, Lucifer knew Dean was finally convinced. It seemed to give him a perverse delight because suddenly everything was quiet. The spread Croatoan virus ceased. The leveling of cities stopped and there were no more broadcasts. They were left with time to rest, time to reflect, time to grow nervous as the leads on the Colt dwindled.

"Sam use to try to impress me," Dean said to Castiel one day, seemingly out of nowhere. They were in what was now considered Castiel's cabin since Dean no longer shared it. No one knew where he slept, or even if he did. Mornings were always gray- a perpetual threat of rain and deluge. "Dad was a lot more difficult to impress, but he didn't have to live with the whining afterwards."

Castiel regarded him curiously. He hoped that was not an allegory. Dean had been drinking, but he was not drunk.

"Cas, I'm the only one that remembers him. And after me, no one will remember me, but that's all right." Castiel already knew all the stories. At least, he did, once. Ten millenia of memories were fading alongside, but he found that regretted the last twenty-six years the most.

"After you, there will be no one to remember anything."

Dean shook his head, "Well, that took the burden off my shoulders. They don't believe it you know." He pointed at the door, "They don't believe. Word nearly got out that the Lucifer's my brother, luckily the man's already infected."

"Lucifer's not your brother. He is mine. You didn't believe, either."

"But I saw your wings. I only saw the shadows, but I saw them."

"I don't have my wings anymore."

"It's all right," Dean said. But it wasn't.

-=-=

"What are you doing?" Dean was angry, "Not to rain on your parade, or," He waved at hand at the scatter of naked bodies and blankets, "Or whatever this is, but there's a limit, usually." He was trying to smile. It hurts to look at him.

"I-" It occurred to Castiel that Dean would not respond well to his reasoning.

"Fine. Whatever? Just don't come to me when all this end in tears." They had been in tears. Now they were sleeping. They were young. They barely remember a world with dragonflies, trees, or even pies. Perhaps it was wrong, to lead them to what would've been iniquities in another age, but he had seen no other way. Their hearts would remain unquiet until they find rest in someone.

"I'm giving them hope. A higher hope. They would tell others. There is still a higher purpose to all this....suffering."

"What, so you're their savior? Through sex?" Castiel stood, carefully crossing the room until the tattered edge of Dean's coat brushed against his skin.

"You are. I am merely the messenger."

"And this is your message? From an angel who lost his wings? Great, the only one who cares is wingless." The words were swift and hot against his face. He smelled of fire and cordite. Castiel flinched, but didn't step away.

"My wings are green now." He spoke more calmly than he felt, suddenly conscious of his own nakedness as his own, "They can see them."

"Chuck said that. I thought it was a joke. I thought you didn't mind turning human, for me." The last words were hushed, as if he was ashamed. Castiel stared at Dean, bewildered.

"I didn't. I don't."

Dean turned his face away. "Don't worry about it. So you finally found women, good for you. I shouldn't say anything. Hey, I wouldn't- " He didn't finish the sentence. Castiel had reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Join us."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but no. Not with them," Castiel held on. Dean looked down at where his hand was, a series of expressions warring on his face, "I'm not giving them a show."

-=-=

The beautiful young women slept on. On a mattress on the other side, the friction between their bodies quietly warmed their skins,

"You are beautiful, Dean," Castiel said, drowsy with alcohol and sex and the peace that overcomes him afterwards, "And fearless." He had to add. The courage still bewildered him. "Heaven's gone. You are all we have. You are all I have. " He meant it. He would always mean it, in a thousand variations, he had said it every time he followed another order or lived another day, but Dean was angry this time. He punched the wall behind the bed. Castiel winced at the sound. It echoed inside his head, but doused with their first taste of alcohol, no one else woke.

"Stop saying that."

"It's true." It was. It always would be.

"Guess what, Cas? I said Yes to Michael out there. I was going to tell you. He wasn't there. He wasn't listening."

Castiel sighed, "He must not be there."

"What?"

"The angels have left." He spread his hands. "Perhaps this humanity of mine is more than the work of my choosing to be with you."

Dean sat up, leaning on his elbows on the bed. "How long have you known this."

"A month. A year. Two years. I suspect, but I don't know." He let the corner of his mouth rise, the humor of the situation caught him. "I seldom know anything for certain, now. How can you live with this uncertainty-- "

"The women," Dean said flatly, staring down at him, his breaths moist and warm, "the absinthe. How long have you been planning a sex cult, lying to those girls in there?"

"Before them. But it doesn't matter. It's not a lie. We have you. Though God may not answer and all the universe and our souls are trapped in the darkness, you will lead us through the shadows to the end. I believe you. I dreamed, knew, and remembered that you would save us before you were born. You shall fear no evil..."

For a long time, Dean was silent, then he leaned forward until their bare chests pressed together and Castiel could feel the heartbeat against his own, "You. Frighten. Me." Dean said against his ear, the roughness of his cheek a contrast to the whisper of the confession. Castiel sighed. There, against the skin of his throat, echoed a low noise. In a different time, Castiel would've recognized it as a sob. A heave of motion, the flash of darkened eyes, the curve of an arm, and Castiel was alone in the bed, a flare of hurt burning beneath his skin and behind his eyes. Sound drifted past the bead curtain, he heard the crunch of Dean's boots growing fainter in the distance. The sorrow was alien and excruciatingly familiar. Slowly, Castiel fell asleep and willed himself to dream.

-=-=


End file.
